


Not The Same

by Sarbear08



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Death, Drugs, First Kiss, Grief/Mourning, I don't know why I wrote this, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Moriarty is back, Overdosing, Post Season 4, So much angst, Sort Of, Soulmates, Suicide, Unrequited Love, and what it is is shit, it is what it is, let's just pretend this fic doesn't exist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:22:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26381098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarbear08/pseuds/Sarbear08
Summary: Sherlock’s entire world stopped and started with one John Watson. And yes, somehow his brilliant, beautiful, strong, and wise blogger was still by his side, after everything Sherlock had put him through—inadvertently or otherwise. He was still there, and Sherlock suspected he always would be.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	Not The Same

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies, I wrote this at 2am.  
> This is based off of a tumblr post. You probably know the one.

Baker Street was simply not the same. Not since Eurus. Not since Mary’s death. Not since Rosie’s birth. It really hadn’t been quite the same since John and Mary had gotten married, he supposed. Actually, perhaps it had been the fall that had truly changed everything.

But no matter now, Sherlock supposed. What’s done is done. It is what it is, he thought bitterly. What it is was truly shit, but they had somehow managed to make it through to the other side, alive and well—not exactly well, but most definitely alive. Him and John. His blogger. His best friend. His other half. His– well, if he was being honest with himself—something he did so rarely—his everything. Sherlock’s entire world stopped and started with one John Watson. And yes, somehow his brilliant, beautiful, strong, and wise blogger was still by his side, after everything Sherlock had put him through—inadvertently or otherwise. He was still there, and Sherlock suspected he always would be. 

But everything felt _wrong._ Like he was simply caught up in a euphoric dream, shapes and colours and sounds floating around him in elusive motions and causing his head to swim. Yes, John had moved back into Baker Street, bringing Rosie with him to share the upstairs bedroom. Sherlock was indeed grateful for the company they provided and on rare—okay, many—occasions, he had offered to care for Rosie while John was out. 

Everything was the same and yet it was all so _different._ The flat had been reduced to nothing more than rubble, no thanks to his sister, and yes, they’d rebuilt it. Together. Him and John. But the colours were never quite right, the placement of things always just slightly off. Even John was different. He had more lines on his face and it looked as though he’d aged more in the past year than he had since they’d met. He was solemn and quiet and when he seemed to think Sherlock wasn’t paying attention, he looked sad. As though millions of thoughts were weighing him down, drowning him with their weight. 

But other things were different too. There were unnecessary, lingering touches. There was eye contact, completely unabashed. There were private, little smiles, meant only for the other to see. They were happy. They truly were. Somehow after everything, they were inexplicably, happily content with their new life. 

Though Sherlock wished. He wished and wished and wished that it could feel _normal_ again. Like before. Before everything went to hell and their lives of running through dark alleys and catching criminals were swept away, leaving nothing but dust and ashes of something that once was in their wake. 

So when Sherlock saw an opportunity to return to some form of familiar normalcy, he leapt at it headfirst. 

“But Johnnnn, why not?” Sherlock pouted. John had to say yes. He _needed_ him to say yes. 

“Sherlock, I understand Lestrade still needs help with cases, but I’ve got Rosie to think of. And a full time job at the surgery. As much as I want to, I can’t just pop off with you whenever a new case comes up,” John explained. 

“But you want to.”

“Of course. Always, Sherlock.”

“Then come on, John. Say yes. We’ll go on a weekend. Mrs. Hudson can take Rosie. We can even choose a boringly safe one. Like this one,” Sherlock waved a file wildly in the general direction of John’s chair. “Look! Art theft. Can’t be too dangerous, right? A new painting disappears every night from the gallery, and only a child’s drawing is left in its place. No trace of DNA. Nothing on the security cameras. No witnesses. The perfect crime. I’ve already figured out when their next theft will likely take place.”

John bit his lip. Tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. Clenched his fist. Released. 

_Yes. Yes! He was going to say yes! Come on John!_

“Fine. This weekend. The art thief.”

“Excellent John! It’ll be our first case since– well, you know.” Sherlock paused before adding. “You won’t regret it, John.”

John smiled warmly, leaned forward and brushed his fingers against Sherlock’s wrist. “I know I won’t. Can’t wait.”

******

The weekend couldn’t come fast enough for Sherlock. It was only a mere few days, but it might as well have been an eternity. At last, when the weekend finally rolled around, Sherlock ushered John out of the flat after leaving Rosie with Mrs. Hudson and hailed a cab.

They spent the ride to the art gallery in silence, Sherlock nearly vibrating with excitement. Once they arrived at the art gallery, they fell into stride with one another and made their way up the steps leading to the front door. 

“So, I’ve studied the pattern the thieves have been following,” Sherlock said once they were inside. He grabbed John by the elbow and dragged him off in the proper direction. “They should be here in the next thirty minutes. All we have to do is wait.”

Sherlock grinned at John. John grinned back. 

“Have you called Scotland Yard about all this?” John asked. 

“Of course. They’ll be here in about thirty, maybe forty minutes.”

“I thought you said the theft would happen in thirty minutes. That’ll be too late.”

“Can’t let the police have all the fun, now. Can we?”

John’s grin grew wider. 

“Just like old times,” he said. 

“Old times,” Sherlock echoed. 

They found a small hallway to hide in where they were able to see the painting the thieves were most likely to target without being seen themselves. They pressed close to one another and waited and waited and waited. 

After about twenty-five minutes had passed, there was a loud creak of a side door somewhere in the gallery followed by the sound of quickly-approaching footsteps. A small, short man walked into their view and sauntered up to the painting, looking as confident as can be. Sherlock smirked. _Not for long._ The man fiddled with the painting for a few moments before John tugged at Sherlock’s sleeve. 

“You ready?” he whispered. 

Sherlock nodded vehemently. He’d been ready for ages. 

“Let’s split up,” John suggested. “I’ll go around behind him and you go this way.”

“Excellent plan, John. You have your gun?”

“Why would I have my gun?”

“Because we’re about to catch a notorious art thief?”

John smiled and raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. Sherlock wrapped a long arm around John’s waist and dragged his fingertips across the waistband of John’s jeans until– Ah yes, there was his gun, nestled safely into the back of his jeans. 

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow as John began to chuckle quietly. 

“Be safe,” John said, then crept out of the hallway and began to make his way around the man. 

Sherlock followed shortly, making sure to stay hidden until he was nearly directly behind the man. 

“I suggest you stop now,” Sherlock said. The man didn’t move. Didn’t turn around. In fact, he didn’t look surprised at all to have been caught. He started humming a tune that Sherlock couldn’t quite place. 

“It’s over. No more paintings,” Sherlock said, his voice echoing slightly off the walls of the empty gallery. 

The man pivoted until he was facing Sherlock, still humming that same tune. He had a mask on, covering everything but his eyes, which were dark and cold and _dead_ and oh so familiar. Sherlock’s stomach did a flip, every cell in his body screaming at him that something was very, very wrong. 

Sherlock squinted at the man, crinkling his brow. Familiar. He looked so familiar. 

“Who are you?” Sherlock asked. 

The man tilted his head inquisitively. Although Sherlock couldn’t see his mouth, he could tell the man was smiling. An unsettling chill ran through Sherlock’s body, settling deep into his very bones. 

Sherlock risked a glance over the man’s shoulder. He couldn’t see John anywhere. Where was John?

The man took a step forward, then another, then mumbled something that Sherlock couldn’t quite make out due to the mask and the considerable distance left between them. 

“What?”

The man blinked sharply, his eyes narrowing in on Sherlock like death itself. “I’ll burn you,” he hissed. 

Sherlock’s blood ran ice cold, his mind reeling. No, it couldn’t be. 

Everything that happened next happened far too fast. Just a blur of noises and sounds and fear and panic that Sherlock would not remember later. John had finally appeared, creeping forwards and ready to tackle the man and take him by surprise. But the man knew. Somehow he _knew_ and before John could reach him, the man spun on his heel and held his arm out towards John and– A gun. He was holding a _gun._

There was a loud _crack_ and Sherlock’s feet seemed to be moving forwards and the man was running for one of the side exits but– _John._ John had slumped to the floor in a heap, clutching at his side. Sherlock ran to him, the sound of the door shutting behind the man barely registering in his mind above the chant of _John John John._

He clutched at John’s wrists, pulling them away from his chest and– _Oh god._ Blood. So much blood. Bright and red and– _so much._

“John? John?? Say you’re alright. Please,” Sherlock begged, ripping his scarf off to press against the wound. It soaked through in seconds, a large puddle forming on the floor and soaking into the knees of his trousers. His coat came off next and he pressed it to John’s body with as much force as he could muster with his shaking hands. 

“John?” Sherlock asked. His vision had blurred, making John’s face look distorted and hopefully paler than it actually was. Hot tears ran down his face and dripped onto the floor, mingling with John’s blood. 

Sherlock swiped at his eyes with his sleeve and looked back at John’s face. His eyes were shut, lips parted slightly in a silent gasp of pain. His chest was still bleeding profusely but more importantly, it wasn’t moving. John wasn’t _breathing._ Panic rose in the back of Sherlock’s throat and he thought he might be ill. 

“ _JOHN??_ ” He screeched, clutching at his face and smearing large streaks of blood across his too-pale cheeks. 

Sherlock forced himself to take a deep breath and dove into his mind palace, wildly searching for an answer. Cpr. Yes. He could do that. Another deep breath. He blinked away a fresh set of tears and laced his fingers together against John’s chest and began, counting as he went, his voice echoing through the gallery. 

“Twenty-eight... twenty-nine... thirty... John _please,_ ” he gasped. 

Nothing. 

Sherlock pinched John’s nose and leaned down. Sherlock hated it. He hated every moment. He hated the first time his lips touched John’s. He could almost taste the blood, the fear, the pain on John’s lips as he exhaled, filling his lungs with air. 

He had imagined, on the moments he’d allowed himself to imagine, something peaceful. They’d be at home, comfortable, perhaps they had something to drink. Inhibitions lowered, their hands would brush, their eyes would lock, and then... 

Or perhaps after a case. Adrenaline rushing through their veins, still high from the thrill and it would be too much to hold back. They would meet halfway, pressed up against the walls and then...

But not this. Never this. Sherlock hated it. He hated it. They should be at home, not here in this stupid gallery, cold and alone with the sound of the gun firing still echoing in his ears as Sherlock tried to count. “Twenty-eight... twenty-nine... thirty... Come on John, please breathe for me,” he begged. 

Still nothing. 

Sherlock wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run far away to a place where John was alright. But instead he leaned down, pressed his lips to John’s—which had gone alarmingly cold—and exhaled, pushing his air into John’s lungs and breathing for him.

He wasn’t sure how long he continued on like that until he heard the sirens. The doors burst open and Lestrade bustled in, followed by a small army of officers. The rest was a blur. They tried to take him away from John and he wouldn’t let them. He thrashed and kicked and screamed and clutched John’s hand and then Lestrade was holding him and speaking to him. Sherlock wasn’t sure what he’d said, but he reluctantly followed the man, just a few steps away from John and the paramedics begin their work. 

At some point, he found himself in the back of the ambulance at John’s side, clutching at his hand as they raced through the streets of London. The paramedic sat back and said something about the fact that they’ve done all they can until they reach the hospital and that John is in somewhat stable condition and he’s lucky that Sherlock was there. 

Sherlock shifted closer to John’s side and studied his face. He looked pale, so so pale. His face was twisted up in a contortion of pain and he was cold. So cold. That was the shock, they told him. 

John cracked open an eye, then the other one and Sherlock was immediately hovering over him. 

“John? Oh god. I’m so sorry. John. Please be alright. You’re alright. It’s fine. Oh god. John.”

John’s fingers tightened around Sherlock’s and he knew, because of course he knew, exactly what Sherlock was thinking. 

“Not your... fault,” John croaked. He gave Sherlock a small smile. His fingers loosened around Sherlock’s hand. “No regrets,” he rasped. Sherlock let out a small huff and buried his face in John’s neck, being careful not to jostle him too much. 

He could feel small, weak puffs of breath against his face, unassailable proof that John was there. He was alive. 

John’s fingers went completely limp and slipped from his. His breaths stoppped. The monitor flatlined. Sherlock was shoved out of the way and the world blurred once more. 

******

Mycroft met him at the hospital and silently took a seat next to him. 

“You should change,” he finally said, gesturing to Sherlock’s blood-soaked trousers. 

“Not leaving,” he said sharply. 

“I know,” Mycroft answered and produced a small bag from under his chair. 

Sherlock accepted the bag, but made no move to leave his chair. 

“Closest bathroom is down the hall on the right. I’ll come get you at once if we hear anything.”

Sherlock nodded once and then made his way down the hall to the bathroom. It had been hours, and they’d heard nothing about John. Thankfully Mycroft had ensured only the best doctors were working on him. But _hours._ It had been long. Too long. 

When Sherlock emerged, he saw Mycroft speaking with one of the doctors. 

“John? Is John all right?” Sherlock asked as he rushed over. The silence spoke volumes.

“No. Nononono.” Sherlock spun in a circle and tugged at his hair. “John?? Is he okay?”

Sherlock was only vaguely aware he was yelling. Mycroft laid a hand on his arm and Lestrade stepped forwards, his hand coming to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder.

The doctor quietly shook his head. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Sherlock laughed. It was a maniacal, high pitched sound. 

“Who? Who did we miss?” he asked Mycroft. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Moriarty’s network. Who did we miss? And don’t send John, send me back.”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “Sherlock, I’m afraid this isn’t my doing. This is no trick.”

Sherlock spun to Lestrade. The detective was crying. How could his idiotic brother fool everyone?

“I want to see him,” Sherlock announced. 

“Sherlock, do you really think that’s–”

“Take. Me,” Sherlock growled. 

“Very well,” Mycroft sighed. 

The doctor led them to a small room near the back of the hospital. John lay on the singular bed inside, a white sheet covering him from head to toe. Sherlock strode forwards and yanked the sheet off of John’s upper half. His skin was so pale it was nearly grey and his chest was bare, save for the deep red stains his blood had left. 

“Very good, Mycroft. I have to say, I’m impressed. Looks quite real.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said quietly. 

Sherlock snorted. “Don’t think I’ll fall for this.”

Mycroft said nothing. 

“No.”

Mycroft stepped forwards and placed a hand on Sherlock’s arm. There were tears in his eyes. Even Mycroft wasn’t that good of an actor. 

“No. No. No.” Sherlock could hear himself repeating. He could physically feel his world shattering down around him, the shards digging into his heart until it burst, wide open and flayed and completely, utterly broken. 

“John?” Sherlock sobbed. He collapsed across John’s cold body, barely registering Mycroft ushering everyone else out of the room. Time blurred until it was no longer a thing, but a mere concept of a thing. And still Sherlock stayed by John’s side and he cried and cried and begged and cried some more. John didn’t hear him. 

******

_Two weeks later:_

The funeral had been dull. Certainly not fit for someone as incredible as John. He would’ve hated it, Sherlock thought bitterly. He’d left the church early, in fact, to go sit at John’s grave. He’d sit there and talk for hours, as he’d been doing almost every day. He hadn’t fully realized what he’d done to John that day he jumped off the roof at St. Barts hosptial. Now he understood.

He desperately wished he didn’t. 

Baker Street was entirely different now. It was empty. Even with Mrs. Hudson and Rosie around, it no longer felt like home. Sherlock supposed it never would. 

******

_Three weeks later:_

He’d stopped visiting John’s grave, and taken to reading Rosie their adventures from John’s blog. He found he rather enjoyed spending time with her until one day, she was babbling nonsense on and on, then suddenly paused and asked for Daddy. 

“What?”

“Dada,” Rosie demanded. 

Sherlock set her down in her playpen and walked away. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to shout. It was too much. Too soon. His heart far too broken and open and raw to even begin to attempt to give Rosie an explanation.

“Dada?” Rosie called again from the sitting room. 

Sherlock snapped. He stormed back in and shouted “he’s not coming back! He’ll never come back! He’s gone! Forever!” He yelled and yelled and yelled until Rosie began to cry and then he yelled some more because it felt _good._ He’d bottled up his grief for so long and let it sit and rot and fester and now he could let it all out and–

The door slammed open and Mrs. Hudson ran in and picked up Rosie, shushing her.

“Sherlock. I know he’s gone and you loved him very much. We all did. But you can’t bring him back. You should be ashamed of yourself.” She took Rosie on her hip and headed back downstairs, slamming the door behind her. 

Sherlock flopped into his chair and stared down John’s empty chair. He got up and hit it. Kicked it. Punched it until his knuckles bled. He pushed it over with a loud thunk. 

He curled up in his chair and cried. 

******

It had been three days since Mrs. Hudson had taken Rosie. He hadn’t moved from his chair at all except to use the loo. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept or showered or eaten anything, and his stomach growled in protest, but he welcomed the pain, because it was something. Something other than the grief that had been eating him alive for the past three weeks. The blame and the guilt and the sadness and the loneliness, because if he didn’t have John, then he truly had nobody. 

With a sigh, Sherlock rose from his chair, determination set tight on his face. Mrs. Hudson was right; there was no bringing John back. And life without John was positively unbearable. Sherlock had barely survived the last three weeks. He feared what the next thirty years might bring. He rifled through the cabinets until he found what he’d been looking for: his secret stash. John hadn’t found this one, although perhaps he had, and he’d left it as a show of good faith. Either way, Sherlock was grateful it was still there. 

He made his way back to the living room, prize in hand, and righted John’s chair. He sunk into it and inhaled, the smell of John wafting around him like an embrace. It would be alright, Sherlock thought. 

“Soon, John,” he said as he removed a needle and vial from the small package. He filled the syringe as full as he could, took another deep breath and pushed the plunger in, the warm liquid surging through his veins. He repeated the same process until the remaining vials were empty, then he curled in on himself, pressing his face against the back of the chair. 

With the drugs flowing through his veins and the scent of John surrounding him, he could almost hear him. See him. Touch him. Not quite, but almost. 

“Soon, John,” he repeated and let himself drift.


End file.
